


One of the Survivors

by jericho



Category: Blur
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jericho/pseuds/jericho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon tries to revisit the past without much success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of the Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2004. It's based in that time period too.

Damon listened to The Kinks' Preservation Act 1 and 2 for a week straight because he was writing and it was all his mind could hold. "Morning Song." "There's a Change in the Weather." Easy songs because he knew them by heart since he was six years old and his dad played it on the record player in the living room, putting his hand on Damon's arm when Damon jumped around too hard. Sometimes it was too late and the record would skip. There was still a spot on "Daylight" that had since the first week, when Damon smelled the still new glossy album cover and then parachuted from the couch to the floor. "Feel that daylight...daylight...daylight...." He used to crawl over to it and nudge the needle ahead with his finger, enough to get past the skip but not enough to miss too much of the song.  
  
Alex tapped his fingers on the nearest hard surface. "Listen to something from the past 20 years," he said on day five. He crossed and uncrossed his legs and rummaged through the newspaper in his lap. His cigarette burned in an ashtray nearby.  
  
"You're one to talk. You still listen to Rumours."  
  
Alex folded the newspaper into a neat rectangle. "I'm doing your crossword."  
  
"Go on then." Damon stood at the large sliding glass doors, open a half an inch so the breeze filtered through the screen and rustled the curtains. The backyard stretched out in the sun like green shag carpeting. _Daylight over the valleys, daylight lighting up the trees._ "Graham's bed used to be right next to the window," Damon murmured as he leaned against the door frame. "He used to have blankets over it but his mum told him he needed some sun. He used to sleep til noon. So she took down the blankets and as soon as the sun came out it'd shine right in your eyes. You couldn't sleep past 7 o'clock in the morning."  
  
No sound of encouragement or acknowledgment came from behind him. When Damon turned he saw Alex with a cigarette in his left hand while the pen in his right scribbled in the squares, moving as if he was writing a letter. He stopped and took a drag while he studied the page, then exhaled smoke at it and started writing again.  
  
"I'm surprised your mobile hasn't rung yet," Damon said. "You've got that admirer."  
  
"Oh, her. She's taking a holiday."  
  
Damon watched Alex's head of messy hair as his vision moved slowly from left to right. In just two or three short years, everything about him had changed. His hair had gone from black to dusty brown, the fringe gone the way of the 8 track player and whatever extra hair there was he tucked back in a pair of sunglasses on top of his head. Damon's hair was going the way of the hoola hoop -- still remembered, occasionally utilized but getting harder and harder to find. Alex was dropping weight so quickly that Damon wondered if he ate at all with the way his body was melting into angles and long limbs. Damon had no real reason to look good, no women who tried to chat him up at the BBC, no vanity this time of the year, and his middle had swollen from battering his vegetables and dismissing physical activity as something he didn't have time for. Damon had pictures of himself from over the years lying around, so it wasn't like he didn't notice the change. But the new record would be a new sound too, so people had better get used to things being different.  
  
Damon figured he'd always remember what Graham looked the last time he saw him. He'd come in for a routine recording session, sitting in the chair staring at everyone going by him, meeting every track Damon played him with a scrunched up face or eye roll. "You know," Damon had said, "you could always work with me instead of against me." Physically, though, Graham had never changed. Comb his hair, put a striped T-shirt on him rather than the steel grey one, put a smile on his face instead of a scowl and it could have passed for Graham 10 years ago. Damon knew he would never have that kind of luck.  
  
Alex ran his hand over the two days worth of stubble on his face. The music was low enough that Damon heard the pleasant scratching noise it made. Alex never seemed to worry about what was happening next. He was dreamily nostalgic but never seemed to have trouble letting go of the past. Damon didn't either, usually.  
  
That night he lay in bed with the sheet half covering him, rhythms and chord progressions looping in his head. The ideas came in waterfalls now and it made it hard to sleep. His skin was clammy, his sleeping shorts tighter than usual around his middle. Alex lay on his stomach next to him, sleeping deeply and happily. His arm extended and his hand rested on Damon's stomach, just below where Damon was scratching his chest hair. Five long digits on a stuffed sausage. Damon looked over but Alex was asleep, oblivious. He never seemed to notice the changes in Damon. He never seemed to pay attention.  
  
Graham had noticed them. The first obvious one was musical taste. "Why are you listening to that shit?" Graham asked when Damon drove them across town listening to a world music compilation. If the tables were turned, it would be punk rock, or maybe someone who strummed frantically and wailed about heartbreak like Graham did on his recent solo efforts.  
  
"I'm listening to that shit because I enjoy it," Damon said coolly. He remembered 20 years earlier when he would put on a song and Graham would say "oh yeah!" in a rock and roll voice because it was exactly the one he wanted to hear. Short of reverting back to Quadrophenia, Damon knew he couldn't do it again even if he wanted it.  
  
Graham had noticed the hair too. "Who told you shaving that part was a good idea?" he'd asked, to which Damon had responded "who told you blond was a good idea?" Small, airy sentences at the time, barbs traded the way they always had been only now they carried the extra weight of anger and resentment.  
  
Alex moved next to him, rolling onto his side, pulling a little more of the sheet with him. Damon didn't reach down to pull any of it back. Instead he just let it skirt across his leg and the hem of it find a new resting place. He stared at the ceiling -- stark white, modern black light fixture that seemed too distant to do anything, then follow along the ceiling to the large mirror with a big Blur sticker on it. He didn't notice that Alex was awake until the hand moved in a circular rubbing motion.  
  
He looked over to find Alex's face pressed against the pillow, one eye inspecting him. "What are you thinking about?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
A few seconds of silence ticked by and it seemed like Alex was going to ask another question. He drew in a breath to prepare for it, then let it hang there. He exhaled and the moment was gone, leaving them in silence again. "You're the best thing I have," Alex finally said, not waiting for or needing an answer. Damon closed his eyes as Alex's fingertips moved up his face, the palm of his hand across Damon's forehead, over the sensitive start of the pattern baldness, the parts of him that felt completely different from a decade ago. Again Alex seemed oblivious. Not too much though, because soon he said "it's all right if you miss him, you know."  
  
Damon didn't say anything, just blinked at the ceiling.  
  
"You should call him. Talk to him." Alex's words were becoming longer and thick with sleep, and the next sentence came at the tail end of a yawn. "He might even answer."  
  
Again, no response. Damon felt himself being pulled over until he was on his side, Alex's arm wrapping around him and his warm breath against Damon's back. His arm covered the spare tire and Damon was torn between shrinking away and not caring. It wasn't like Alex not to mention that kind of thing.  
  
***  
  
He found the pictures in a box in the closet while looking for an old notebook. He'd written some tablature in it five years previous during one of his brain storming sessions and realized suddenly while making breakfast that he couldn't remember how it went. Under old school ribbons, an Essex cap, the invitation to his cousin's wedding, was the manila envelope he'd nearly forgotten existed. Just by touching it, he felt the weight of what was inside. He knew every detail.  
  
The pictures fell out when he tipped the envelope. Glossy rectangles with an instantly recognizable face. Graham on his back, on Damon's bed. He was laughing and touching his forehead, collar bone stark under his white skin. Damon remembered everything about taking it. The round nipples that rose to attention when Damon flicked his tongue over them. The lanky legs, the stomach so skinny it showed his ribs when he lay down. His hair was messy from Damon tangling his fingers in it, body swollen from Damon invading it. They hadn't even left Damon's room that day. Damon's mother had walked by the door at least a hundred times and must have heard the breathless giggles and muffled moans, but of course she said nothing. Damon had gone out to the kitchen later for a glass of water and she'd been sitting at the table reading the paper. "Do you want some lunch?" That was all she'd had to say about it.  
  
The floor was hard on Damon's back when he lay down, his finger tracing the smooth outlines of Graham's face. The memory was an unwelcome assault but an arousing one nonetheless, and he turned his head to look at the clock above the mirror. Alex wasn't due for another hour. Damon's mobile was turned off. There was plenty of time to pop the button open on his trousers, close his eyes and bring himself to orgasm. By the time he reached that point, the picture was resting face down on his chest, his mind giving him a slide show of Graham's lips, Graham's hands, the sounds he made the first time he actually let Damon inside. Alex's voice rang in his head as he came. _You should call him. Talk to him._ And then, as an afterthought, _he might even answer._  
  
***  
  
If it took Damon three beers to work up the nerve to dial the number, it took him six to get up the nerve to head up Graham's front walk, picture in his front pocket, head full of good intentions. He did his best to curb the nervousness as he waited for Graham to answer, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before he realized what he was doing and stopped himself. He was Damon fucking Albarn and he could do this. This was someone he'd known his entire adult life. How hard could it be?  
  
Graham tugged open the door and looked at him. Maybe it was the emotional distance, or that Damon hadn't seen him in awhile, but he wasn't the same. His eyelids were heavy and the youthful glow was replaced with accusation, normally round eyes narrowed, full lips pressed together in defiance as if to say _you can't have this anymore_.  
  
Damon came in without being invited, the photo in his pocket a beacon and a last resort. "I was just thinking about you," Damon told the wall as he led the way into the living room. Graham followed him silently. "Just wondering what you were doing. Who you were doing. That sort of thing."  
  
He turned to see Graham scratch his nose. Over the years, Graham's nervous habits had multiplied, moving from endearing mannerisms and into the realm of compulsion. He couldn't get through a sentence without blinking of rubbing his face thoughtfully. Graham looked away. No eye contact whatsoever. Damon swallowed the lump of pride in his throat and moved closer. Maybe if he pretended nothing was wrong, the greeting would be the same as it always had been.  
  
Graham stiffened when Damon put his arms around him. His kiss was hesitant, hardly moving his lips when Damon tried to get his tongue involved. "This was a bad idea," Damon finally mumbled, letting go and stepping backward as the realization hit. Graham looked back at him solemnly, full of pity, like he'd just found out Damon's dog had died. The look was unbearable, too different from what he used to get. This was the same person, right? How different could he be?  
  
Damon took a deep breath, his own reassurances a mantra. This used to be his best friend. How hard could it be? His hand shook as he reached in his pocket, his voice pushing past the lump in his throat as he held out the picture. "Do you remember this?"  
  
Graham twitched and looked down, holding the bridge of his nose. Then his arms flopped to his sides like dead branches. "Yeah."  
  
"I want this."  
  
"You can't have that now." Graham fidgeted with his shirt sleeve, eyes darting back and forth from Damon's left foot to his right, the kind of look that used to be followed by momentary catatonia. Damon had seen it on tour busses when Graham was homesick, interviews where Graham tuned out and forgot t pay attention to the questions. "What is it that you're after?"  
  
Seeing Graham uncomfortable gave Damon hope again, and he stepped toward him, leaning in until his mouth bumped Graham's. Graham didn't pull away, but he didn't kiss back either. Damon put his hand on the back of Graham's neck to hold him there, pulling down his chin with his thumb and his forefinger so he could force his tongue inside. Graham's mouth tasted like champagne and cigarette smoke, although it didn't mean he'd been drinking because it had always tasted like that. Finally he felt Graham's tongue respond, moving against his in quick and agitated movements. "I want to fuck you," Damon whispered. "Can I?"  
  
Pause, and then the word came out strong and solid. "No." Damon's muscles tensed, readying himself for another sentence of rejection, and Graham said "I'll fuck you."  
  
Damon stumbled as he was pulled into the bedroom by the tail of his shirt, flopped like a dying fish when Graham pushed him down on the bed. Graham was on him before Damon could react, straddling him, fists hitting the bed on either side of Damon like he might use one of them to knock out Damon's teeth. Instead one of them unbunched and grabbed the tail of Damon's shirt, and Graham tugged at it so hard that it nearly slid Damon upwards on the bed. Damon lifted his arms obediently, trying to help, but every time he moved his actions clashed with Graham's, and he went as limp as possible until Graham pulled it off and threw it on the floor. Graham tried for the button on Damon's jeans but seemed frustrated when they didn't give immediately, so Damon undid them himself. He felt Graham's eyes burn as they moved over him, taking inventory. "You're gaining weight."  
  
Damon barely had time to say it was only temporary before Graham yanked his pants down his hips so hard it nearly moved him in the opposite direction. He gulped back his nervousness when Graham grabbed his dick, pulling at it roughly, forcing it to erection. Damon closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to remember what it was about this that he wanted. If he focused hard enough, he could ignore the hostility. Remember the alcohol and how it usually made him relaxed and easy. Try to do this right.  
  
When Graham pushed into him, it was rough and painful, skin pulling at skin, insufficient lubrication for the job. There was some, but not enough to be as comfortable as Damon remembered it, and he wondered if that was on purpose. Damon gritted his teeth, willing himself to relax. Graham's thrusts were hard and purposeful, all the love drained for them and replaced with something Damon didn't recognize. Graham stared down at him and Damon tried to stare back, but it was too hard to see the look in his eyes. The bed squeaked under them, tension hovering like thick smoke. Damon reached up and ran his thumb along one of Graham's nipples. It still hardened under his thumb and it sparked enough memory for Damon to move his hips with renewed enthusiasm, and that held him until he came.  
  
Graham pushed off him, stripping off the condom and tossing it on the floor. Damon imagined what it looked like when it landed, a messy glob on the hard wood paneling, the last evidence of them ever being together. Graham looked down at him, veiled eyes with wrinkles starting to crease the edges, hands resting on his knees still lanky and sweet but with none of the usual tenderness that Damon remembered. "You're such an arse," Graham said.  
  
Damon blinked. "What?"  
  
"You kick me out of the band and then you come over here to fuck me."  
  
There was too much about that sentence to debate right then. I didn't, I wouldn't, you don't understand. Instead he just looked back at him, stares like car headlights meeting on a dark road. Suddenly he felt weak and foolish, shamed by his own desires, too humiliated to think of adequate retaliation.  
  
He got dressed quickly, watching Graham lay back on the bed and light a cigarette. The smoke rose in a straight line toward the ceiling. "Did you tell Alex you came here?" Graham asked. "Alex is your band mate now."  
  
Damon didn't answer, but he didn't have to. He left as quickly as he'd come, back down the front walk, hands trembling as he fastened another button on his shirt. Nothing in there was how he remembered it.  
  
***  
  
Damon went back to find that Alex had let himself in. He sat sideways on the couch, knees up, book resting against them. It was harder and harder these days to yank Alex out of whatever book he was reading, like life was more interesting on a printed page than anything reality could tell him.  
  
Damon stood against the wall. Alex had opened the patio door a crack and pulled back the curtains, and the yellow light brought an eerie silence with it. Music. He needed some music. Alex looked up and his gaze was so sturdy that Damon slid down into a crouching position. "What?" Alex said.  
  
"I just went to Graham's."  
  
"Oh." Alex looked back at the book, biting his lip, seeming like he was deciding which question to ask first. He looked back at him slowly, something Damon saw from his peripheral vision because he couldn't actually meet his eyes. When Alex spoke again, his tone was different, a far cry from the soft, soothing one he used in every day conversation. Each word was like a spike, so different from the hello that Damon knew it must be written all over his face. "Did you get what you wanted?"  
  
"Yes. No." Which was it? No, really, but he knew what Alex meant and it seemed like the easiest way to answer it.  
  
"I meant did you fuck."  
  
"How do you know I...."  
  
Alex rolled his eyes, and the gesture seemed cruel and dismissive. "You say that like I was born yesterday."  
  
Damon felt Alex's eyes on him a few seconds longer before he looked back at his book. Damon could tell this time that he wasn't reading it. "What the fuck am I doing here then?" he mumbled, and put in his bookmark. He unfolded himself and stood, rounding the edge of the couch. Damon knew he was heading for the door. He felt a sudden need to reclaim the conversation. "It's not as if you'd notice anyway."  
  
Alex spun around quickly, paperback curled in his hands, the spine on it broken from the book being opened and laid out, squeezed, tucked into pockets and back packs. "Fuck you." It was uncharacteristically acidic before his voice lowered to its usual soft spoken drawl. "I notice everything," he said. "Everything."  
  
Damon pushed his legs out from under himself and sat on the floor. The sunlight beamed in the patio doors, large smeared rectangles of yellow on the otherwise stark floor. Long after the door closed behind Alex, he still didn't move.


End file.
